


A Movement in Minor C

by firearms57



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, M/M, because heaven forbid you get up, did you know that moving furniture too fast scratches the floor, ethari going ham with his muscles because he likes to flex in all the ways, etharis chastity belt, flirty banter, flusternaan, house hunters, i mean house hunters, im just reminding you before you scoot walk your chair across the floor, its a dumb pun dont worry about it, many non explicit nods to btq's king runaan theory post, poetic non poetry, probably, runaan tries anyway, the elves on hgtv, too bad because muscles, toppy ethari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28121706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firearms57/pseuds/firearms57
Summary: Ethari and Runaan share a moment on their balcony.
Relationships: Ethari/Runaan (The Dragon Prince)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 42





	A Movement in Minor C

**Author's Note:**

> i have taken notes from the guru and set to fluffy ruthari as a fuck you to this migraine

They often dance by twilight. 

The Moonshadow heart does not slow by night. It breathes full and lush in the dimness, and the flow of flush over flesh twines with the thrum of lunar wings. Most times they fly, the moon given them wings, flashing gems, cerulean, amber, haloed in threads of silver that spin giddy circles around the silvan pair within. 

But sometimes they are slow.

Ethari had asked to lead. Without speaking, of course, an act which was, as time passed, shifting from occasioned to common. He was seated at the sofa when Runaan slipped in, a book in his lap and a mug of something hot on the low table beside him. Ethari raised his head when Runaan set his bow beside the door and offered a charming grin. Runaan inclined his head, a smile finding its way to his lips with the slow creep of ivy. 

Runaan said nothing as he set about removing tunic and boots, and Ethari easily adopted his silence. Still, he was hardly  _ quiet  _ about it, stretching out on the couch with his head pillowed on his arms, tongue caught between teeth and regarding Runaan with eyes that very well danced.

“You may as well laugh,” Runaan muttered, and Ethari did.

“I can’t help it, you coming in all stoic, as if your boots are a castle to heist.” His eyes tracked Runaan as he moved across the foyer, dropping his coat on the hook that hung above the fireplace and turning around to regard his husband with a haughty tilt of the head.

“Ah, and what of you when you talk all serious over a sheet of metal?” 

“That’s different. I imagine forging a sword is of comparable difficulty to scaling a castle wall.” 

“You’ve not seen the Katolian castles,” Runaan deadpanned. 

Ethari reached for his mug and toasted the ceiling. “I suppose ours is a bit more modest?” 

Runaan huffed softly, slipped across the room and wedged himself between Ethari’s legs and the table. Ethari paused with his lips still around the rim and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. 

When Runaan reached for the mug, Ethari let it slip from his fingers, watched it disappear onto the table behind Runaan. 

“What was that for?” Ethari asked.

Runaan pressed a knee onto the couch beside him, slid halfway forward into his lap. Ethari made a startled sound, hands sliding to his hips as if of their own accord. Runaan leaned forward, pressed chest to chest, because he knew Ethari wasn’t expecting it and he wanted to muss him up a little. 

“You were paying it too much attention,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against Ethari’s jaw.

Ethari hummed amusedly, but rather than pull him closer, as Runaan had anticipated, he pistoned upright, Runaan caught against his chest. The table squealed across the floor, and the tea flipped out its saucer. 

Runaan, whose poise now seemed a trifle, tilted his chin back, caught by the severity of Ethari’s gaze, which always lit up so lovely in the rays of a dying sun.

“You’ve spilled your drink,” Runaan said, just off the far side of breathy. 

Ethari pressed his lips together, clearly amused, but he said nothing. He shifted his weight onto his left leg and reached out with the other for a reckless shove. The table took a solid run across the living room before inertia demanded its due. The cup, now empty, wobbled on the table’s lip, once, twice, gave a jaunty spin, after which one would have sworn it bowed and tipped a nonexistent hat, then succumbed to — messy — destiny. 

“ _ Ethari,  _ the  _ hardwood _ , _ ”  _ Runaan hissed, trying to sound stern, though it was hard when he was trapped so effectively against a wall of heated muscle. Was it futile to feign ineffect to the very elf he’d floundered over for the past decade? 

Yes, yes it was. 

He’d give it his best effort. 

“First you spill, then you break the china, and now — look!” He managed a halfhearted glance at the space behind him where a long, thin groove of gray ran across the otherwise unbroken mahogany. “You’ve scratched it, and only a week after we remodeled —” 

Ethari hushed him with a gentle press of his palm. His eyes were liquid, lilting. “Don’t worry, darling,” he said. “I’ll sand it out.”

“I —” 

Ethari pressed a bit more firmly, enough to startle the breath from his lungs, before his hand dropped, teased at the flesh above his throat and popped a button just to be catty. Runaan was going to say something snippy, but Ethari’s fingers crept up to his jaw and the look in his eyes demanded quiet.

Runaan softened the ever-present grip he held on his poise and looked up at Ethari. He held his gaze as Ethari lead him to the balcony. 

It begins with hands crossed at wrists and held by the opposition. The fun of the first position is in its versatility. A game, to see who will give first, to read your partner and decide. There are a series of paths by which to branch from the root, depending on second position and the response chosen. It is like a conversation: message and answer.

They spent longer than was necessary in the refrain, bathed in opalescent moonlight so fine it burned, and yet they strained in stillness, careful, measured moves. Ethari took a half-step forward, arm rising to cup the back of Runaan’s head, indicating he would lead. In answer, Runaan slid his fingertips up to meet Ethari’s shoulder, then cocked a hip back and shifted his weight. 

Ethari followed him easily, extending his arm and snapping it back on a twisting pirouette. Still, he offed a questioning look as they swung past each other, and Runaan bit back a smile. It was an odd branch he’d chosen, when traditional was the Way of Lovers or the Way of the Lost, but Ethari would hardly be himself if he went about questioning the unexpected; he said it soured the world’s wonder. And Runaan would hardly be  _ him _ self if he didn’t drop a stone or two into the pond of serenity that was his husband. 

Positions eight through fifteen were a series of twists and dips, though the amount and severity of said moves depended upon how often the partner conceded to his lead. Runaan often went unexacting, and Ethari was always tender with his care, but his lover seemed especially playful this eve, and Runaan found it had sparked his own spirit. 

On the first spin, he turned without protest, looping out and back at Ethari’s behest. Yes, it was better to lull one’s target into false ease before the strike; he waited until the next spin brought him around and beneath Ethari’s jaw, twisted from Ethari’s grasp and spun to face him. Ethari, caught off guard, fumbled his footing and wobbled a bit. Runaan saw his vantage and pounced, hurtling forward, hard, forcing Ethari back against the balcony wall. 

Ethari’s breath heaved out, arms shooting out to clutch at Runaan’s sides. He managed a wheezy chuckle. “Lucky you didn’t try that facing the other way.” 

Runaan spared a glance over his shoulder for the low railing and the empty drop behind it. 

“That’s why I waited,” he retorted, leaning forward to nip at Ethari’s ear, “for the  _ second _ spin.” 

“ _ Oh _ , I  _ see _ ,” Ethari said wisely. “I thought we were dancing, but  _ you  _ —” He drew in a breath and on his exhale peeled away from the wall, bypassing Runaan’s protests, futile though they were, and switched their positions, unhurried and amused, just because he could. He brought their bodies flush together, arms on either side, his weight heavy, insistent. “You,” he repeated, “have been plotting treachery from the beginning.” 

“Treachery implies king and crown,” Runaan gasped. “Marriage makes us equals.” 

Ethari chuckled. He felt it in his teeth.

“I have no patience for your sass, not today,” Ethari said, voice rife with fond exasperation, and pressed his lips to Runaan’s throat. “I was harried for hours by the newest brood of assassins-to-be because  _ someone  _ said a little too much about the generosity of the local blacksmith.” 

Runaan sighed under his mouth. “How could I  _ not _ brag about you?”

“I may have been exalted royalty, the way they kept staring at me.” 

“Perhaps they’re onto something.” At Ethari’s dry look, he laughed. “I take it you disapprove, then?” 

Ethari huffed. “You certainly seem pleased about that.”

Runaan opened his mouth, but Ethari was on him before he could speak, checking him against the wall, and his eyes had gone molten in that way they did when he thought Runaan was being especially racy. 

“No, don’t say anything, I  _ know  _ you are. You’ve been teasing me, provoking me on purpose.” His voice roughened. “You  _ want _ me to be rough with you?” 

Runaan tried to say something, but Ethari kissed him, and his words petered off on a sigh. Ethari slid one of his hands between them, thumbing at his collarbone, stopping to toy at the button beneath. 

“Someone’s already got started on these,” he murmured. “How considerate of them.” 

Runaan tilted his chin up, and the moonlight caught his face, features imbued with celestial tranquility, yet the curve of his lips was decidedly wicked. He said, "Started on mine, but forgotten yours."

He twisted his wrist, hard, snapping Ethari's grip. His fingers shot out, nimble and quick, and he'd curled them so they caught on the ties that held Ethari's tunic in place. They slipped nimbly beneath his shirt, intending an easy siege of pants and waist, but stopped short at the discovery of an unexpected obstacle. 

"You're wearing a belt," Runaan said.

"When do I not?"

Ethari, who'd since overcome Runaan's (expected) misbehavior, easily reclaimed his position, and then pushed just a bit further, just to be certain, hoisting Runaan up the wall and pinning him with his hips. Resistance was futile, of course, for however slippery Runaan was when he had surprise as a vantage, the direct approach would not work against Ethari. 

Runaan addressed him as Ethari commandeered his wrists. "When you've been at home," he said. "You don't wear work clothes when you've been at home."

Ethari hummed, raised Runaan's arms above his head just far enough that he arched, gasping. 

"It's not —  _ ah  _ — it's not fair." Runaan twisted in his grip. "You have bodies working beneath you." 

Ethari's fingers flexed. "You, I hope?"

Runaan hissed a laugh. " _ No.  _ The  _ world _ works in your favor today."

"I  _ am _ exalted royalty," Ethari said, fingers reaching to undo the clasps of his tunic. “They have to do what I tell them or face the consequences.” 

“And what consequences are these?” Runaan gasped. 

“You, of course.” 

Runaan stilled, breathing hard, and let Ethari slide the tunic from his shoulders. His husband let out a pleased hum, tossing the garment to the side. He leaned in close, his breath tickling the fine hair beside his ear. 

“It’s because I worked late,” Ethari murmured.

Lost, Runaan asked, “ _ Nn,  _ what?”

Ethari laughed softly. “The belt, love. You caught me halfway between states of dress.” 

“So now you’re doing the same to me? I thought you above such pettiness.” 

“Whomever told you that doesn’t know how I express affection,” Ethari huffed, drawing his free hand across Runaan’s chest. “Besides, you’re far too lovely to keep confined to modesty all day.”

“Naturally, you exempt yourself from that statement,” he snipped.

A hum. “Naturally.” 

Warm fingers plucked at his abdomen, then lower, in a way that was wonderfully distracting, but —

The wind picked up, then, brushing across bare flesh, and he shivered, pressing closer to the heat of the body against him. 

“Perhaps we can continue inside?” he whispered. “It’s awfully cold.” 

Ethari paused. “Oh,  _ no _ .” His tone went grave. “And winter strikes again, driving her icy fingers down my poor husband’s back —”

Runaan rolled his eyes so hard as to be audible. “Maybe if you weren’t so hasty to rip my shirt off —”

Ethari dropped a smacking kiss against his forehead. “Impossible. It’s a wonder you’re still wearing pants, really.” 

“My legs thank you for your consideration.” 

A laugh. “Come, then, my sassy love, let’s get you inside.” Ethari shifted his grip from wrists to hips and hauled Runaan upright. Runaan squeaked when the cold air touched his back, bunching over at the waist to prolong their areas of contact. 

They moved from the balcony to the doorway, Ethari dropping to his knee for a moment to retrieve Runaan’s discarded tunic, Runaan upset with the sudden motion and Ethari amused at his disgruntlement. The door shut behind them with a cheery jaunt, well-used and well-loved as everything was in their home — the difference between a house and a home, you see.

Hours later, the moon dipped to frame that flat expanse of wood. A brilliant arc of moonlight traced the lip of the balcony railing and slanted crosswise down the thick swathe of leaves that hung above the window of the master suite. It had crept its way inside the room half an hour ago and now resided in a hush at the foot of the bed, hesitant to wake the occupants. Yet time does not slow, even at the request of its keepers, and with a sigh, the moon carried on. 

There was the butterfly flutter of turquoise within the dark of the room, rocking between closure and openness before they settled. When those eyes again shifted, they caught a wash of moonlight seeping in through the window and burgeoned to sapphire. He regarded the open window, the apparent source of his wakeful state, with a wry smile, and its tepid luminary glowed with soft apology. With a sigh, he sank into the warmth of the blankets and the body it held, crown removed from his weary brow, if but for the night.


End file.
